


The Detective Dances

by fardareismai



Series: This Rose is Extra [5]
Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Humor, Kissing, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fardareismai/pseuds/fardareismai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four to six weeks after the events of Mobile Communication Technology, Rose and Sherlock go to a party. Story 5 in the This Rose is Extra series. A crossover with BBC's Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Detective Dances

**Author's Note:**

> The final completed story in This Rose is Extra series. There will be more to come in the next bit. As ever, I suggest reading through the other works first.
> 
> Thank you for reading and being fantastic!

John observed Sherlock warily. For over a month, despite the slow diet of cases, the detective had managed to curb his more destructive tendencies. He was still playing the violin for ages, still pestering Molly at the morgue for cadavers to poke at and still sleeping inconsistent hours, but he had not shot any further holes in the wall or taken up a needle or bottle to his own destruction. Their flat was a mess, and there was a bag of disembodied eyeballs in one of the drawers of the cooler, but it was an airtight bag, so John decided not to bother complaining.  
  
He knew that he could lay the thanks for the relative calm of his difficult roommate squarely at the feet of one Rose Tyler who had, in the past six weeks, become something of a fixture in their lives. She was at their flat at least twice a week: charming Mrs. Hudson, joking with John, and arguing with Sherlock. When she did not come over, at least once a day, Sherlock would receive a text message and he would get up and make coffee and toast, or leave the flat and come back an hour later carrying with him the odor of food. John was not certain what the relationship was between his moody, difficult, genius of a roommate and the friendly, pretty, clever heiress to whom he had become attached, but it seemed to be doing Sherlock a world of good so John could not object.  
  
It had been two weeks, however, since last Rose had lighted their apartment or she and Sherlock had been photographed by the paparazzi leaving a chippy. John did not know where she was or if something had happened between the detective and the blonde. Sherlock was becoming progressively twitchier and more manic. John did not think that the man had eaten in the past 24 hours, and he couldn’t be sure about the previous 48 either. Sherlock was in their kitchen banging about, muttering and cursing to himself and John wondered what kind of a mess would be left to clean up. John settled himself deeper into his armchair with the paper, not even wanting to know.  
  
A buzz from the other side of the room indicated that John’s roommate had a text.  
  
“Sherlock, you’ve a message,” John called into the kitchen.  
  
“I’m busy. If it’s so important, you read it,” came the sharp, petulant voice of the smartest man in London from their kitchen.  
  
John got up, ignoring the slight stiffness in his shoulder, and checked Sherlock’s mobile.  
  
 _Am uneasy. Need to meet.  
@}--^--_  
  
The text was from Rose. John observed that this was the first message Sherlock had received from her in two weeks.  
  
“It’s from Rose; she says she needs to meet.”  
  
Almost faster than thinking, Sherlock was at his side, snatching the mobile from John’s hand. John watched as the detective typed his response.  
  
 _Am available for consult. A case?  
-SH_  
  
Both men watched the phone and, a minute later it lit up again with Rose’s response.  
  
 _Sort of. Difficult to explain. Require your presence. 1900. Undercover- wear a tux. Will send transport. Bring John- he’ll enjoy this one.  
@}--^--_  
  
“I haven’t got a tux,” John admitted. He did not want to be left behind, particularly if Rose needed them, but it could not be helped.  
  
 _John doesn’t have a tux.  
-SH_  
  
“You could always rent one,” Sherlock said, though he sounded slightly uncertain.  
  
“Rent a tux for 19 at 15? Not a chance,” John replied, heavily.  
  
The mobile lit again.  
  
 _Suit is fine for him. Tie, minimum. You’ll need a tux, Sherlock. Can’t explain further. 1830 car will arrive.  
@}--^--_  
  
Sherlock looked at John, the light of adventure in his eyes. The mobile lit one last time.  
  
 _If I know you, you haven’t eaten in ages. Eat before you come, it’ll help.  
@}--^--_  
  
John laughed and Sherlock looked chagrined.  
  
“We’ll have to call out,” the detective said, sheepishly. “I fear I’ve broken the cooker.”  
  
~?~?~?~?~  
  
John leaned against the doorframe of Sherlock’s room watching the detective expertly tie his bowtie. Rose’s car should arrive for them in 15 minutes.  
  
John observed Sherlock as he finished with his bowtie and transferred his attention to his cuff links. A tuxedo is a garment designed to display a man at his best, and Sherlock wore it well. He’d taken the time to go to the barber and his dark curls looked artfully rumpled rather than incidentally so. The crisp black and white put his long lean build on appealing display. Rose had once confessed to John that she found Sherlock very attractive physically. John could see that, but his personality was nearly abhorrent to most people who met him. Rose seemed to find him endearing, however, and the detective was more patient with the pretty blonde than he was with anyone else that John had ever seen him with.  
  
“Where’s Rose been the past few weeks? I saw that she hadn’t texted you, and she hasn’t been over.”  
  
“Abroad,” Sherlock said, shortly.  
  
“Vacation?” John ventured.  
  
“Working.”  
  
John nodded. He had no idea what Rose did for a living save that she was in some kind of covert military organization and she outranked him by several degrees. She’d told him once that it was classified.  
  
“Fighting?” John tried again. It seemed like getting any information out of Sherlock today would be like pulling teeth.  
  
“I think not. I was under the impression that this was a diplomatic trip.” Cuff links managed, Sherlock picked up a pair of well-shined shoes and sat on the edge of his bed to put them on.  
  
John gave up on this thread and tried another. “You see a lot of her- or have done since you got back from Plymouth awhile back.”  
  
“So have you.”  
  
John had to concede this point. A few times, Rose and Mickey had invited him and Sherlock to do something ordinary- watch movies or play board games at one of their flats or go out to the pub. Sherlock had never answered one of these invitations, but John had. Rose had never seemed disappointed to see him without Sherlock and had greeted him enthusiastically. He found that he liked the two young soldiers and Mickey’s pretty girlfriend, Martha very much. He and Martha had actually gotten on like a house aflame, discussing medicine and medical school, leaving the other two laughing, rolling their eyes, and mouthing ‘doctor’ to each other. They were fun to spend time with, even if he had sworn he would never watch a science fiction film with Rose and Mickey again- they had very strong opinions about aliens and time travel.  
  
“Right,” John said, “but I’m not the one getting photographs with her published in the tabloids once a week. You don’t talk about it, so I wouldn’t know how much time you spend with her except that I see you two on the front page of The Sun every couple of days when I pass the newsagent.”  
  
“You’d think The Sun would have someone more interesting to follow around,” Sherlock grumbled as he finished with his shoes. He stood before the mirror on his wardrobe and checked his reflection. He seemed satisfied with what he saw and breezed past John on his way into the sitting room where his coat was laid across the back of a chair.  
  
“Does Mycroft know about her?” John ventured.  
  
“As you have so astutely pointed out already, John,” Sherlock bit off, “photographs of Ms. Tyler and I circulate through the major tabloids approximately once a week. Naturally Mycroft knows about her.”  
  
“And what does he think of your… association?” John recalled Mycroft’s reaction to Sherlock’s dalliance with Irene Adler had been rather violent. However, Ms. Adler had wanted access to government secrets, and John that the idea that Rose Tyler actually was a government secret. Sherlock had been unable to access her classified files with Mycroft’s security clearance. Neither John nor Sherlock had known that there was a higher clearance in the country.  
  
“I wouldn’t really know,” Sherlock said, buttoning his coat. “I haven’t spoken to him in several weeks.”  
  
John was shocked. He knew that Sherlock’s relationship with his brother was grudging on the best of days and openly hostile on the worst, but he had never known Sherlock to ignore Mycroft for several weeks at a time. John wondered what kind of skill was required to avoid the man who was the British government and why they hadn’t had members of the secret service descend on their flat to black-bag Sherlock and force him to face his brother.  
  
John stood, gaping like a fish for several moments until a discreet honk from the street in front of their flat reminded him of what he was supposed to be about. John struggled into his coat while Sherlock descended the front steps, calling out to their landlady, “John and I are going out, Mrs. Hudson, don’t wait up.”  
  
“I wasn’t planning on it, dear,” Mrs. Hudson responded, coming to her door as John made it down the steps to Sherlock’s side. “Well,” she cried in surprise, “don’t you two look all primped and polished? Where are you off to then?”  
  
“A case, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock cried, opening the front door and dashing out.  
  
“A case in a tuxedo?” she asked, perplexed as John left as well, closing the door behind him.  
  
~?~?~?~?~  
  
The car that Rose had sent was a limousine, which suited their attire. The two men took the trip in silence, John appreciating the unaccustomed luxury, Sherlock watching out the window in twitchy impatience.  
  
They arrived at a manor house on the outskirts of London and were dropped at the front door. They were lead from there into a formal ballroom set up for a fancy party. John felt slightly underdressed, but not conspicuously so. Sherlock fit in perfectly.  
  
“Do you see her?” John asked quietly.  
  
“Not yet,” Sherlock responded, eyes continuing to search.  
  
John looked as well. He did not see Rose yet, but he saw several faces that he recognized. There was Harriet Jones, President of Great Britain. He saw several other politicians and two well-known actors before he heard Sherlock make a noise that told him he had found their quarry.  
  
John followed Sherlock’s gaze to the dance floor and found the sleek blonde head of Rose Tyler moving in sync with another blonde head. The young man guiding her across the dance floor was unknown to John, but he had seen pictures on Rose’s phone with this person in them and knew he was a friend of hers. A few couples away from the two blondes, Mickey and Martha were dancing.  
  
Mickey caught sight of the new arrivals first and led Martha over to Rose and her partner. He leaned in and spoke to them. Rose’s back was to the entrance, but her dance partner’s eyes shot up to them, looking at Sherlock and John speculatively. He executed a turn so that Rose was facing them now, and she grinned over his shoulder at them. She lifted her hand from the back of his neck giving a ‘one minute’ gesture and turned her attention back to her partner who, apparently, said something very amusing because she laughed brightly.  
  
“Um, Sherlock?” John asked, glancing at the man at his side. “What is all of this?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” Sherlock responded, though he was beginning to look angry. “But I suspect we shall discover shortly.”  
  
The band brought the current song to an end and the four laughing friends made their way over to John and Sherlock. Rose approached first and pressed a kiss onto John’s cheek.  
  
“You look very nice, John.” She smoothed and straightened his tie, making him blush with the intimacy of the move. “You do clean up well.” She turned to Sherlock, and her smile turned positively wolfish. She stretched up and placed a kiss on the detective’s cheek as well and said softly in his ear, “I knew you’d look spectacular in a tux.”  
  
Sherlock actually blushed. Rose gave a satisfied grin and settled back to her normal height (plus two inches for her heels).  
  
“John, I don’t think you’ve met Jake Simmons, one of my oldest friends.” She indicated the blonde man with whom she had been dancing. “Jake, this is John Watson. I’ve told you about him.”  
  
As Jake and John greeted each other, Sherlock pulled Rose aside.  
  
“You said you had a case,” he said, glaring down at her.  
  
“I said we needed to meet,” she retorted. “You assumed there was a case and I did not dissuade you of the notion.”  
  
“You said you were uneasy.”  
  
“I had a party to go to and no date.”  
  
“I don’t do this sort of thing.”  
  
Rose’s face softened. “I know, and you can leave if you want, but I have to go back in the morning- negotiations are taking much longer than we anticipated. I had to be here tonight, so you coming here was the only way I was going to be able to see you. I knew you wouldn’t come if I invited you, so I tricked you. I am sorry,” she said, and she looked it.  
  
Sherlock sighed and let go of his anger, allowing him to really observe her for the first time. He had never seen her in anything but her Torchwood uniform and casual clothes- usually jeans, t-shirts and her blue leather jacket. Tonight she stood before him in a sapphire-coloured one-shouldered evening gown that hearkened back to a Grecian toga. It was simple but for the silver embellishments at her shoulder and waist. It was extremely modest for eveningwear (Sherlock found that he did not much like overt displays of skin in women after his experiences with Irene Adler), being high at both the back and over her chest. She was wearing heels, but sensible ones. Her golden blonde hair was twisted into a sleek knot just behind her right ear. Her jewelry looked good but he could tell that it was relatively inexpensive and she still wore the silver chain with a key pendant as always. Her makeup was subtle except for under her eyes where it did not quite cover up the darkening of several sleepless or stressful nights. He took her hand and examined it. As he had suspected, her fingernails were bitten to the quick- a bad habit that she only indulged when she was stressed and unhappy.  
  
“Negotiations not going well?” he asked, holding out her hand so that she could see what he had.  
  
“Nothing to worry about,” she said with a small smile. “And even if there is, they’ll just destroy the planet so you won’t be bothered about it anyway, right?”  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Is that likely?”  
  
“Not really. Think Mickey and I have talked them out of planetary destruction. But what they really want is all of our water, which would do the same thing just… slower.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. Two weeks before when she had told him about the assignment she had been thrilled because it got her off-planet. She wouldn’t be going to another planet but negotiating in a ship that was currently hanging in orbit around Earth, unseen by a single satellite or telescope. It would be her first trip off Terran soil in five years though, and she had been practically singing over the phone as she told him about it. Now she just sounded tired.  
  
Sherlock could almost admit to himself that he had been worried when she had left the planet. What if she found someone on that alien ship that would be able to return her to the stars she clearly missed? Would she even return to tell him she was leaving? Their… whatever-it-was was so new and tentative. It was wholly unconsummated- not even a kiss since she had first called herself his girlfriend. In fact, though he had assumed that everything would change once a title had been given voice, nothing had. He wasn’t sure if he was pleased with the fact or disappointed.  
  
“So, are you leaving?” she asked, trying to keep from sounding overly disappointed.  
  
He looked at her- wide brown eyes that he hadn’t seen in two weeks save in the recesses of his mind palace that he held apart for more personal things. Over-generous lips that he had never tasted. Warm hands that he hadn’t held in his in longer than he liked. It was odd how these little things helped to keep the howling mania and self-loathing in his mind at bay in much the same way as a truly difficult puzzle.  
  
Sherlock shook his head, both in disbelief at his own foolishness, and in answer to Rose’s question. “No, I’m not leaving,” he sighed. “I don’t like being manipulated, but you’re right, I wouldn’t have come if you’d asked, and if this is the only way I could see you, I’m glad you got me here.”   
  
He smiled at her- a smile that only she ever saw. It was the kind that took nearly 10 years off of his face and made him look completely beautiful. Rose returned the smile with the one that fanned an ember just beneath his heart and spread warmth throughout his system.  
  
“There’s one thing I should tell you first though,” she said, and her eyes were finally fully serious.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Mycroft is here, Sherlock. And he’s met me.”  
  
“Yes, I knew he’d met you shortly after you and I met.”  
  
“No, then he’d met Tabloid Rose, he’s met the real me now. Well, Torchwood Rose, anyway. He’s been trying to get into my files. Made a right menace of himself, actually. I knew it was him, see, ‘cause the first time happened right after we got our picture in the tabloids before Cardiff and no one else has clearance as high as he does. I ignored it since I figured you’d explain that we weren’t… well, anything after that, and I figured that’d be it. Between then and Cardiff nothing happened, but after we got back and we started getting photographed together more often, it’s been nearly weekly since. The second and third time we sent the Bad Wolf virus to his computer to eat all of his files. That stopped him for a while, but he came back eventually. We finally had to arrest him.”  
  
“You arrested Mycroft?” Sherlock asked in complete disbelief. “I didn’t think anyone in the country had the authority.”  
  
“He was a bit perturbed by the fact that we do, actually. We were nice to him- just made him sit in an interrogation room, not a cell. He told me that you’re not talking to him, so he had to figure out about me himself. I don’t believe he wouldn’t have done it even if you’d talked to him, but… well, that was his excuse.” Rose looked at him with gold eyes full of a question that Sherlock could not quite identify.  
  
“What?” he asked.  
  
“He told me about Irene Adler. How she used you to get government secrets. I think he assumed that I was doing something similar.”  
  
“You’re not.”  
  
“No, I’m not. If I want government secrets, I’m perfectly capable of getting them without your assistance, thank you. But Mycroft is worried about you. He thinks I’m using you like she did.”  
  
“I don’t want to discuss my…  _relationships_  with Mycroft.”  
  
  
“I know, you’re a private person, but he’s worried about you, and… well, you don’t hide something like this unless there is something to hide, you know?”  
  
“No, I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like this before, Rose.”  
  
“It’s just… Mycroft isn’t like John. If you hadn’t told John, he’d still assume the best of me but…” she trailed off, seeing something in his face that gave her pause. “You  _have_  told John, haven’t you?”  
  
“Told John what?”  
  
“About  _us_ , you pillock!”  
  
“What  _about_  us?”  
  
“That we’re…” She hesitated, seeming to look for a word. “ _Involved_. We are involved, aren’t we, Sherlock?”  
  
“You said that you were my…” Sherlock stopped having never given this word voice.  
  
“The word I used was ‘girlfriend,’ but maybe we should find one that you can actually say,” she said with a bite of irritation in her voice. “I’d like an explanation of why you haven’t told John later, but we were talking about Mycroft. John would assume the best because he knows and likes me, but Mycroft didn’t know me at all, and now that he does he pretty seriously dislikes me. Add to that the fact that he doesn’t seem to trust you at handling your own life and  _really_ doesn’t trust you about girls and he’s going to assume the worst. He’s a powerful man, Sherlock. If he decides I’m dangerous to you, he could have me kidnapped, interrogated, or arrested. It wouldn’t go well for him if he tried, but he does have the power to make my life very difficult.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head, shocked at his own lack of foresight. Of course Mycroft would begin harassing her when he couldn’t get an answer out of Sherlock. He wouldn’t just leave well enough alone: it wasn’t in his nature. And he would liken Rose to The Woman because there had been no other women in Sherlock’s life.  
  
“You’re right.”  
  
Rose raised her eyebrows in surprise. She had not expected him to concede so easily. “’Bout what, exactly,” she asked, slightly suspicious.  
  
“I should have told Mycroft that I am… in a  _relationship_  and asked him to leave you alone. He wouldn’t have done it, but I should have told him anyway.”  
  
“I get it,” Rose said with a sigh. “I don’t much like it, but I get it. You don’t like talking to him or explaining yourself to him. But why keep it from John?”  
  
“It’s not that I’ve kept it from him I’ve just not...  _announced_  it or anything.”  
  
“Has he asked?”  
  
“He did for the first time tonight.”  
  
“And you…” she trailed off, watching his face. “You avoided the question,” she said after a moment. “Ah well, I suppose I can’t expect much else of you.” She reached up and patted his cheek, giving him a bright grin with her tongue tucked into the corner of it.  
  
Sherlock reached up and grabbed her hand, pulling her a step closer to him. “Rose,” he said softly, looking into her eyes. For over a week he had felt the looming spectre of madness creeping upon him again without her laughter to light the darkness inside him. Now, looking into her eyes, he felt more at peace than he had since she had told him she was leaving the planet. “Rose Tyler,” he whispered, leaning another inch closer to her. He could feel her breath coming from slightly parted lips over his face now. He did not move any closer, coward that he was, but he did say “I have missed you.”  
  
He watched her lips stretch into a smile and then- so slowly that he might have thought it a figment of his imagination save that he was observing her with as much care as ever he had given to a crime scene- she moved forward and pressed her mouth to his.  
  
It lasted one second. Two. Then from behind them came a whoop and a smattering of applause. Rose pulled away and turned. There were Mickey, Martha, Jake, John, Gwen, Tosh and Owen (neither could have said when the last three arrived) laughing at them and clapping.  
  
Sherlock looked at Rose. She was blushing a becoming shade of pink but smiling and laughing with her friends. Sherlock could feel the heat on his own face, and could not quite suppress the smile that he knew was there as well.   
  
“All right, all right you reprobates,” Rose cried, joining the rowdy group. “Calm down before you bring the tabloids down on all our heads.”  
  
The group slowly calmed. Rose greeted the rest of her team cheerfully.  
  
“John, this is Gwen Cooper, Gwen, this is the handsome doctor I was telling you about,” Rose introduced the two grinning cheekily.  
  
“Yes, I'd gathered as much,” Gwen said with a smile in turn. “He was about to take me for a spin on the dance floor but you went and stole the spotlight by getting snogged.”  
  
Rose rolled her eyes, then leaned in closer to her friend with a jerk of her head toward Owen and Tosh and asked softly, “did they come here together?”  
  
“Yeah,” Gwen answered in a low voice.  
  
“Well that's moving along nicely as well, isn't it?”  
  
The two women giggled together.  
  
Rose glanced around. “Jake, where's your date?”  
  
“Last I saw him, he was over talking to your mum,” Jake said, scanning the room. “Oh dear, they're on their way over here,” he said, directing Rose to look over.  
  
Ianto Jones was leading Jackie Tyler over to the group that contained her daughter and her daughter's plus-one.  
  
“Sherlock?” Rose began hesitantly.  
  
Sherlock, who had been talking to John quietly looked over at her. “Yes?”  
  
“You know how you don't do this sort of thing? The relationship thing?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I'm afraid you're about to learn  _why_  you don't. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”  
  
Sherlock looked at her in utter confusion, but his unasked question was met with a shake of her head. She turned away from him and he followed her gaze to the two people approaching their group. The man was tall and well-built with dark hair and an impeccable suit. The woman was probably Rose's height without her heels, bleach-blonde, forty-ish, and dressed in a gauzy, floaty confection of pink that would have been better suited to a teenager on prom night than a woman of her age. It was Jackie Tyler, Rose's mother. Sherlock recognized her both from the society pages and Rose's descriptions.  
  
“Come on, love,” Mickey murmured to Martha. “Let's go have a dance.”  
  
“Good idea,” said Gwen to John, tugging him toward the dance floor and giving Jackie a wary look.  
  
Tosh and Owen disappeared without a word.  
  
“Cowards,” Rose murmured to Jake without heat.  
  
“I'm taking Ianto and running as soon as I can,” Jake told her.  
  
“Good to know the loyalty I've garnered from you idiots over the years.”  
  
“Loyalty is nothing to the terror of your mum, Rose.”  
  
Sherlock stood behind them, bemused, as Jackie and the young man approached.   
  
There were really far too many people between them to start talking, but it did not stop Jackie from crying out in a carrying shout, “Rose! Sweetheart!” She approached her daughter with a hug and a palpable pink-tinged cloud of drama.  
  
Rose hugged her mother back slightly tensely. From over her mother's shoulder she met Ianto's eyes. He shrugged and mouthed ' _sorry_ ' before having his hand grabbed by Jake to flee the scene.  
  
“It's so good to see you sweetheart, it's been ages!” Jackie cried. Both Sherlock and Rose winced at her volume which was being assisted by the pink something-or-other in the glass in her hand, and the likelihood of several before that one.  
  
“I was over for dinner the night before I left. I've been working since, mum.” Rose kept her volume low and her voice reasonable, hoping that her mother would take the hint and stop shouting for the world to hear.  
  
“You work too hard. I'll tell your father that, just you watch me.”  
  
“Mum, I love my job, and there's no need to shout. This is Sherlock,” Rose said, grasping for a different subject and pulling the man in question to her side. “I told you about him. I told you he might be coming tonight.”  
  
“Oh yeah, the genius boyfriend,” Jackie cried, turning to Sherlock and planting a kiss on his mouth.   
  
Sherlock's gobsmacked expression was so heart-stoppingly familiar it took Rose's breath away for a moment. It was the same expression The Doctor had worn when Jackie had kissed him.  
  
“You must be a genius in the sack anyway to keep this one around for more than a week,” Jackie continued without any modulation in volume. “She's become a bit of a slapper since Himself left her five years ago.”  
  
“ _Mother!_ ” Rose cried, shocked and offended. “The tabloids do not have  _every_  aspect of my personal life correct!”  
  
“You're out with a different bloke every week, sweetheart. It's fine, good for you to get out while you're still young. He took away three of your best dating years, you know.”  
  
“I go out with colleagues and friends, mum. Not every trip to the pub is with someone I'm shagging. I go with Mickey and Martha nearly every week.”  
  
“And I was so pleased when you two got together. But he's found his own doctor now, but there's always hope.”  
  
“Mum, Mickey and Martha have been together for two years. I don't think there's any hope, and no one wants there to be hope.”  
  
“There's also the good-looking one that you was dancing with earlier,” Jackie continued, seemingly ignoring Rose's attempts to bring the conversation into something resembling reality.  
  
“Jake is gay,” Rose said, exasperated. “He and Ianto have been together for six months, which you should know as Yan is Dad's personal assistant. I was trying to introduce you to Sherlock, mum. My boyfriend?”  
  
“Oh look over there, it's Harriet Jones,” Jackie cried, still not listening to Rose. “I must go have a word. I'll see you later, sweetheart.” And with that she was off leaving Rose and Sherlock baffled and shell shocked in her wake.  
  
“She didn't even let you get a word in edgewise,” Rose said apologetically to Sherlock.  
  
“That is... probably for the best,” he replied, watching Jackie Tyler talking to Harriet Jones with the exaggerated hand-movements of the profoundly inebriated. “I rarely make a good first impression.”  
  
“She wouldn't have remembered it anyway,” Rose muttered darkly. “But I will. God, I'm so sorry about that.”  
  
Sherlock turned to her then, his light-coloured eyes meeting her dark ones. “I am a genius, Rose Tyler,” he said, ignoring her eye roll at his need to reiterate the fact. “Save for not having tricked me into coming to this party, I can think of no way that meeting could have been prevented. Even then, it wouldn't have been prevented, merely postponed. I am your...” again, coward that he was, Sherlock could not give that word voice.  
  
“My plus-one?” Rose suggested with a cheeky grin. “Do you want to take a walk? There's a garden here that's kind of nice- bit quieter than it is in here. We could... catch up?” She glanced away from him, blushing slightly, then looked at him through her lashes and said, quietly, “I missed you too, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock caught his breath. He wanted to listen to her explain about her time on the alien ship (and wasn't it strange the he wanted to listen to someone else talk?). He wanted to tell her about the very brief case that Mycroft had given him since she left and the experiment he was running on the eyes in his refrigerator. However, he wasn't sure exactly what it meant that she had used the same phrase on him that had caused her to kiss him before. He knew what he hoped it meant, but he could not be sure. This was not his area.  
  
“Yes,” he breathed, “a walk would be... good. I'd love to... talk.”  
  
“Sherlock!” cried a sharp voice from their right.  
  
Sherlock and Rose had been standing close together talking but not touching. They jumped as though they had been caught snogging, however.  
  
“It's the night to meet the families, isn't it?” Sherlock muttered through gritted teeth before turning with Rose to face his brother.  
  
“Mycroft!” Sherlock cried, all joviality and cheer. “You look like you've lost weight, but prison will do that to you, won't it?”  
  
“What are you doing here, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, ignoring his brother's attempts to bait him.  
  
“Sherlock is here as my plus-one,” Rose said, smiling. It was her 'Vitex-heiress' vapid smile, but her eyes were cold. “That's all right, isn't it?” she asked, her voice edging dangerously.  
  
Mycroft glared at her with his social smile affixed firmly in place. “Naturally not,” he said, “I'm just surprised. You would seem to have your pick of men in London, so why my dear younger brother?”  
  
Sherlock gave his shark’s smile to his brother. “Why do you ask, Mycroft? Jealous? I note that you are here stag, as they say.”  
  
Mycroft ignored Sherlock and left his gaze on Rose.  
  
Rose ratcheted her smile up another notch. “What can I say?” she asked, “I'm a sucker for a man with a big...  _brain_.”  
  
Sherlock's breath hitched. She had added untold layers of filth to the statement that he would not have thought her capable of. He smirked as he watched Mycroft's social veneer crack and a flush colour his cheeks.  
  
The band chose that moment to wind down the current song and begin the next.  
  
“Ms. Tyler,” Mycroft said, finding his composure again, “would you allow me this dance?”  
  
Everyone present was fully aware that Mycroft was looking to separate Rose and Sherlock to interrogate one or both of them.  
  
“Actually, Mycroft,” Sherlock said smoothly, taking Rose's hand, “this is  _my_  dance.”  
  
As he led Rose to the dance floor, he whispered to Mycroft in passing, “ _leave her alone_.” He added to the statement a glare that even his brother would hesitate to challenge.  
  
Arriving on the dance floor, Sherlock realized what he had done. He had painted himself into a corner with this one. He, of course, knew the theory of all of the common ballroom dances, that wasn't the issue. He was musically inclined, so he anticipated that he would prove adept at dancing as well and wouldn't embarrass himself or Rose. However, he would now have to spend several minutes holding her close to him. He would breathe her scent. He would feel her move.   
  
Sherlock Holmes could look at horrifically dismembered bodies and show no emotion. He could chase down mad killers and laugh. He could face off against the most important people in the country and give them mountains of cheek. He was 33 years old, however, and the prospect of dancing with a pretty girl had him _terrified_.  
  
Sherlock noticed, when he came out of his reverie, that Rose had arranged their arms in a proper dance formation- his right hand at her narrow waist with her left at his shoulder, his left hand held out and her right draped over it gently. She was now looking at him with her brilliant grin that had her tongue tucked into the corner of it, poking out between her teeth.  
  
“You'll find your feet at the end of your legs,” she told him, eyes sparkling. “You might want to move them.”  
  
Sherlock nodded and swept her into a basic step in time with the music.  
  
Now that they were moving, Sherlock found that it wasn't as difficult as he had anticipated. Rose was a good dancer, and he was sufficiently adequate to keep them from looking too awkward as they moved through the other couples. The dance floor was crowded and Sherlock was forced to pull Rose in closer to himself than he might normally, though they were hardly being obscene. Sherlock allowed his mind to take him through the steps of the dance, the rhythm of the music, and the feel of Rose Tyler's warm skin under his fingers.  
  
“Have you solved it yet?” Rose asked, pulling Sherlock from his reverie.  
  
“Solved what?” Sherlock asked, bringing his scattered attention back to her.  
  
“You were a million miles away in your head. I just figured you were solving a case.”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “Rose Tyler,” he said, knowing the effect that those words had on her when he said them in the right way, “I should be solving a case. Or I should be looking for one. Or I should be trying to deduce which of the people here are criminals and liars by the scuffs on their shoes, but I can't seem to do it. You distract me.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “I'm mad, you know. Your psychologist friends would diagnose and medicate me in instants, no doubt. I don't feel things, Rose. I don't handle things the way that people do. I don't want to because people tend to be so small and predictable and boring but... when I'm with you, I do feel things. Things that I don't know what to do with. Things that I can't pick apart and analyze and categorize. They don't make sense to me. My usual methods are useless with you.  
  
“So no,” Sherlock sighed, drawing her even closer and bringing his mouth to her ear to whisper, “I wasn't solving a case. I was trying to solve you.”  
  
She shuddered in his arms as his breath ghosted over her ear. They were only barely dancing now, merely swaying on the spot. She lifted her mouth to his ear and responded, “genius like you, shouldn't take too long to solve. Or you could just ask.”  
  
Sherlock pulled back to look at her. Her eyes were dark, and she was smiling in the way that she seemed to reserve for him- warm, sweet, fulfilling.  
  
“Would you let me kiss you, Rose Tyler?”  
  
“I thought you'd never ask.”  
  
Sherlock knew the biology of attraction- hormones and pheromones and body shape and reproductive imperatives. He knew the chemistry of arousal- nerochemicals kicking in and sparking pleasure centers in the brain. He even knew the physics of sex- despite what Irene Adler had accused him of, he was not a virgin.  
  
Kissing Rose Tyler was not science, it was poetry. Her smile tasted like it felt- warm, intoxicating, and honey-sweet. Her skin was velvet-soft and smooth. He breathed in her scent, the analytical portion of his mind cataloguing orange blossom, lilac and jasmine scents and identified the perfume manufacturer. The rest of his mind was caught up in the slight increase of pressure that she had applied to his mouth, the slight parting of her lips, the invitation of which he was both scared to take and terrified to ignore. Before either of them could deepen the kiss, however, the band ended the current song and they were, again, brought back to reality.  
  
Pulling apart, they met each others' eyes and smiled.  
  
~?~?~?~?~  
  
The following day, when Rose was back on the alien spaceship and Sherlock was skimming the papers for a new case, he found a picture of the two of them kissing on the dance floor of the party. He clipped the photo from the paper to add to his personal scrapbook among the articles showcasing his accomplishments.


End file.
